


fall in line

by implicits



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bisexual!Josh, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more tags and characters later on, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Tyler isn't actually an asshole I promise, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/implicits/pseuds/implicits
Summary: The one where Tyler Joseph thinks he finally has it all figured out, until a certain redhead with the most alluring personality he may have ever encountered enters the picture."Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you." — Elvis Presley.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> um hi, this is my first ever published fic on here so please be gentle with me. Or don't, honestly I'll appreciate whatever feedback I can get. 
> 
> Before you read it, I just need to declare that English is not my first language and while it is easy, I might not always get the grammar 100% correct. (This is my way of saying that I have no idea when to use the word whom and when not to use it, so if I fuck up and use it wrong, feel free to tell me so I can correct it!)
> 
> I'm kinda nervous to post this, I've been working on the first chapter for months and I'm still not completely satisfied with it but I just really wanted to get it published. 
> 
> Alright, enough blabbering. Enjoy!!

Tyler Joseph has a system.

 

To put it bluntly, although not very tastefully: Pick up a guy, fuck him, dump him before any strings attach; move onto the next one. Or sometimes, just fuck him and move on without even bothering to learn his name.

The thing is, he doesn't do this because he _wants_ to hurt them, or because he enjoys it; he does it to avoid getting hurt himself. See, whenever something happens, for example a tragic accident, and someone gets hurt, if you care for that person it'll most likely impact your life as well. Also, to use another pertinent example, this thing called "when you stumble upon your significant other fucking someone else, in _your_  bed nonetheless", or perhaps in a more appropriate wording, being cheated on, is another reason he finally broke down and built up several airtight walls that still stand tall to this day. Realistically, there's no upsides to any of it. Tyler has been through that too many times, so he created the so-called "system".

Meet, greet, dump; if you will.

He's crushingly aware of how cruel and downright _brutal_  it sounds, and he sort of hates himself for it, but he's spent too long getting hurt over and over. He knew he'd get too lonely and lost at sea in his own head if he kept isolating himself from the world, so that's yet another reason why he created the system. It's worked so far, though with a few minor hiccups. Like he said, he doesn't _mean_  to hurt them nor does he want to. It just... happens. The mere thought of the people he's lost or been screwed over by in his arid twenty-one years of living makes him wanna hide under the covers of his bed and never see the light of day again.

"Hey, Ty! You okay, man?" He's rudely, albeit necessarily, brought out of his winding path down memory lane by his co-worker, Mark, snapping his fingers far too close for comfort to his face.

Mark is one of his "friends", meaning people he replies to in the comments time to time on Facebook or people you stop to talk to for a few minutes when you bump into each other in public. He's also his co-worker so he speaks to Mark more than anyone else, really. Not that they talk about much, though. Mark is usually the one initiating the conversations, with Tyler just nodding his head or throwing in a few comments here and there. All he really knows about Mark is his surname and his strong interest in cinematography. Oh, and the colour red. You might think otherwise, but Mark doesn't talk about himself to much extent; nor does Tyler ask.

He ceases his intense, albeit one-sided, staring contest with the dirty white tiled floor of the currently empty Walmart he works in to look up at the other man. "Wha—um, yeah, why?"

Mark shrugs his shoulders noncommittally and continues stacking canned peaches onto a shelf. "Well, you were looking at the floor as if it's the most interesting thing you've ever seen in your life, and let me tell you, these floors have definitely seen better days so I'm a little concerned for your health," he jokes lightly, "which reminds me, who the hell is on cleaning duty? Because they're not doing a very good job."

Tyler just stares.

"Okay, never mind all that; but seriously, what's up?"

Tyler snorts quietly and looks down at the can of mushrooms he's clutching in his slightly trembling hands, scrunching up his nose in the process. God, he _hates_  mushrooms. Who even eats these? "Yeah, no, I'm good. Just a bit tired, I guess. You know how it is, these dreary night shifts."

Mark narrows his eyes slightly, but nods nonetheless. It's evident by the suspicious look on his face that he can tell Tyler is attempting to steer the topic away from himself, but thankfully decides not to push it.

He appreciates it.

Mark places the last can of peaches on the shelf and folds up the cardboard-box they're stored in. "Alright, man. If you say so."

He takes off down the aisle, most likely to discard of the now folded box. Tyler sighs and resumes his monotonous stacking of the seriously repulsive cans of mushrooms.

Mark isn't aware of Tyler's mental health history; or any of his history, really. Whenever they have their, although very brief, conversations he tries to never let anything too personal slip. He can handle simple questions like, "What's your favourite colour?" or, "What movies do you like?", you know, the basic stuff. However, what he can not handle are questions about his family or anything regarding his mental health. Luckily, Mark has never necessarily asked anything too personal, except perhaps mentioned Tyler's family once or twice but he always managed to change the subject. Mark must've gotten the hint pretty quick, because his family hasn't been brought up ever since.

As excessive amounts of air fights it way out of his nose when he releases a deep sigh for the second time, Tyler places the last can of mushrooms onto the slightly carelessly stacked cans and shoots a glance at the clock mounted to the cement wall.

_12:48 A.M._

He gets off at one.

Twelve more minutes.

Time seems to drag on at the speed of a snail as he waits for his shift to finally come to an end. His boss isn't around at this ungodly hour, as he very rarely is, so he figures he can't get in trouble for not doing anything if he can't _see_  him not doing anything, right?

Tyler rubs his left eye blearily with a heavy hand.

Whatever, he's beginning to feel the start of a migraine creeping up his spine with the ill intent to make a nest behind his forehead. It's probably the fluorescent lights screwing with his head.

Right as he reaches the end of the aisle, the automatic doors to the store slide open noisily. A young man with a head full of vibrant red curls walks in. Removing his hands from his jacket pockets, he runs the left one through his already messy hair and darts off to the cereal aisle.

Tyler exhales another tired sigh for the umpteenth time. He doesn't spot Mark anywhere so he supposes he has to take this one.

Ten more minutes.

He subtly sweeps his clammy hands over the rough fabric of his red Walmart T-shirt and takes his place behind the checkout counter. Deciding to entertain himself while he waits, Tyler begins idly drumming his fingers against his thighs and proceeds to hum one of his untitled songs under his breath. Like a kid with a rapidly receding attention span, he grows bored of that rather quickly. He steals another glance at the clock hanging on the wall.

Nine more minutes.

Two minutes and a few heavy sighs on his part later—he's officially lost count of how many times he's sighed in the past ten minutes—the guy with the impressively red hair walks up to the counter and hastily places his groceries on the conveyor belt. A six-pack of Red Bull, two bags of Doritos and a box of Lucky Charms, Tyler notes.

"Hi," he greets, grabbing the first bag of Doritos and scanning it.

"Hey," the man says back, looking around and bouncing back on his heels.

His voice is pleasantly deep, and as Tyler looks up from scanning the bag of chips, a nose ring catches the light of the yellowish glow of the lamp in the ceiling. His interest piques slightly; he must've missed it earlier. In his defence, there had been quite a bit of distance between them.

What if he were to get one of those himself? Tyler nearly snorts out loud at the image that pops up.  _Yeah, right, I'd look ridiculous. I don't think I could pull it off as well as this guy._

He hurriedly snaps out of his reverie and finishes ringing the man up before he gets lost in his own head for good. "That'll be $11, please."

The man nods and retrieves his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, then proceeds to thumb through the bills quickly. All of a sudden he hears a quiet, "Shit."

Tyler's head shoots up.

"Um, is there a problem?" he asks as politely as he possibly can.

The guy looks embarrassed as he once again drags a hand through his red curls. "Um, sorry, I'm three dollars short. But, uh, I can just return one of the groceries, it's fine."

Tyler suddenly takes notice of how incredibly tired he looks, the bags underneath his eyes are worryingly dark and his hair is really messy, as he had previously noted.

A small pang of sympathy hits him.

Out of nowhere his mouth decides to open and produce speech without his consent. "I... you know what, it's okay. I'll pay for the rest."

If you ever ask him why he offered to spend his hardworking income ( _pfft,_ who was he kidding, really?) on a stranger's unhealthy choice of nutrition (though, he's not able to judge as he had, before his shift started, mind you, guzzled down three Red Bulls while simultaneously puffing on those heavenly cancer sticks wrapped in coarsely textured paper; also known as, in a less redundantly descriptive word, cigarettes. Honestly, he was moderately nonplussed by the fact that he somehow hadn't gone into cardiac arrest yet), the only remotely coherent answer you may or may not receive is indignant spluttering as his brain short-circuits.

Maybe it was because he suspects this dude needs a break or maybe it was because his shift ends in three minutes. Perhaps a mixture of both.

The guy looks at him in surprise and opens his mouth to say something before abruptly snapping it shut. He looks as if Tyler has just informed him that he was gonna remove all of his clothes and run through town in the nude. He would've laughed at the mental image it induced if it hadn't been an inappropriate moment. It seems as though the redhead isn't used to random people being nice to him very often.

Another pang of sympathy crawls up his spine.

"Oh... are you sure? You don't have to, really," the guy stresses, looking at him with wide eyes.

Tyler glances at the clock.

One minute.

"Yeah, dude, it's cool. It's just three dollars," Tyler replies. Really, it _is_  only three dollars. He might not be loaded but he's in no way _that_  poor.

"But—"

"Listen, man, it's late and my shift ends," he casts another glance at the clock to his right, "well, now. S'fine, I promise."

The exhaustion of a long day of dealing with irritated middle-aged women—among other equally as pleasant people—with children clinging to their legs and demanding to purchase every item in the store they lay their curious and untainted eyes upon (though, hey, he would gladly assist with that, it would certainly double his pay-check by a moderate percentage), is starting to wrap around his bones like a second skin, causing his speech to slur almost imperceptibly.

A huge smile breaks out across the guy's face, startling Tyler and making him smile timidly in return. He can't help it, the dude's smile is  _infectious._

"Okay, thank you," he hands Tyler a bunch of wrinkled bills, "thank you so much, uh—"

"Tyler."

He smiles again, a smaller flick of his lips this time. "Tyler. I'm Josh," he introduces himself.

 _Josh._  It suits him, Tyler decides with a small nod.

"Cool, you're welcome. Have a good day. Uh, I mean night, I guess it is," Tyler backtracks, his ears warming up as Josh laughs airily.

He picks up the bag of groceries and starts making his way toward the exit. "Yeah, you too, man. Thanks again!"

Then he's gone and Tyler is alone in the suddenly empty and vast store.

 

                           ***

 

Tyler is lounging around on his mildly beat-up couch, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth while some shitty movie that had lost his attention about ten minutes in is playing on the relatively small TV. He had haphazardly tossed his lighter somewhere on the kitchen counter when he got in from work last night and has now made himself way too comfortable on the couch to get up and get it. In other words, he's lazy.

He's been contemplating hauling himself off of the suddenly comfortable couch—it might be caused by his reluctance to move even a single muscle—to fetch the damn lighter for about five minutes when his phone goes off and interrupts the impending war in his head.

Groaning, he waits for circa fifteen seconds just to spite the person on the other end for disturbing his very busy day of doing absolutely nothing before half-assedly reaching out toward the aforementioned device currently vibrating obnoxiously against the coffee table. Not even bothering to look at the caller I.D., he taps the green button and presses the screen against his ear.

"Hello?"

"Tyler! Hey, man, what's up?" Mark's cheerful voice crackles thinly through the line.

Tyler's eyebrows furrow slightly as he glances around the small living room of his apartment, almost as if he expects Mark to suddenly materialise out of thin air and yell out a comedic, "Boo!"

How did he even get his number? He repeats that out loud since Mark obviously can't read his thoughts.  _Thank God for that._

Mark chuckles. "Well, I wasn't really sure how to get it so I decided to look it up on the Internet. I know we aren't like best friends or whatever, but I wanted to ask if you'd wanna check out this gig with me and a few friends? It's at that crappy club downtown. There's this band playing tonight and they're pretty legit."

Running a hand through his tangled brown hair, Tyler sighs. Socialising? That's an uncomfortable territory he tends to avoid like the plague. Especially with people he doesn't know.

He inhales and subconsciously picks at a hangnail on his index finger.

"Uh, look—"

"Listen, man, I know how much you like music, so it can't hurt to just check it out, right?" Mark interrupts. Tyler does a slight double take.

"How did you know that?"

"Um, you mentioned it once, when we were talking about stuff we liked," he replies, sounding a bit hesitant.

Tyler pauses his twitching fingers.

Oh, yeah. He remembers that conversation rather well. Mark had been especially chatty that day, probably from the copious amounts of coffee Tyler had, with peculiar interest, watched him basically inhale in the break room, asking him all sorts of questions. He had stuck to giving him almost curt answers until he started growing weary of Mark's continuous queries so he ended up blurting out that his biggest interest was music; and that was that.

Tyler scratches his head sheepishly and mentally ridicules himself for sounding so paranoid.

"Oh. Right. Well..." he trails off. He does love music.

"Dude, you can say no; I'm not gonna force you but it'd be cool if you came with us."

Tyler hesitates, then sighs lowly. "Alright, fine. I suppose I should get out more."

"Cool! It's at eight. Meet us there?" Mark suggests, once again back to the cheery voice that had greeted him when he answered the phone. Tyler nods before dumbly realising that Mark can't see him.

"Yeah, okay," he relents.

 _This ought to be interesting,_  he thinks as he ends the phone call and finally hauls himself off of the couch in search for his beloved lighter.

 

                           ***

 

The club is absolutely packed with sweaty bodies and the music is so loud he can feel it reverberating through his chest. Tyler's starting to regret even agreeing to this when he feels a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.

He turns his head to see Mark grinning at him. "Tyler! Glad you could make it, man. We're gonna get some beers, you want one?"

Tyler hesitates and glances around at all the drunk people in the stuffy room. "Um, sure. Why not?" He hadn't been planning on getting drunk but with his nerves being all over the place he could stand to get a tad tipsy.

Mark claps him on the back and shouts a, "Be right back!" over the thumping music.

After watching him vanish into the crowd, Tyler is as usual unsure of what to do with himself. Should he move closer to the stage or wait for Mark to come back? He gets his answer when the fifth person of the night bumps into him roughly, causing him to nearly lose his balance. _Again._ He is dangerously close to losing his shit because _fucking hell,_ drunk people seriously have zero coordination skills.

As he's pushing his way closer to the stage, the intoxicated crowd erupts into applause as the band Mark was talking about takes the stage. He's all of a sudden startled to a stop as he gets a better look at the person behind the drums. That's the guy from last night!

_Josh, was it?_

"Great crowd we got tonight!" the lead singer shouts into the slightly battered microphone and grins as the audience drunkenly cheers. "This is a song called If, hope you like it."

Tyler barely notices Mark and his friends walking up next to him; his eyes are glued to Josh. His energy is so... _different_  from the other members; it's sort of mesmerising. He had looked downright exhausted when Tyler had been ringing him up by the checkout counter the other night, but all traces of fatigue are gone by now. Of course, he could've just been tired because it had been around one in the morning on a busy weekday. It's not like Tyler knows him personally, but something seems different. He's sort of jealous, to be honest. He wishes with everything he has in him that he could just quit his maddeningly dull and mundane job and perform his own music for people who are actually willing to listen to his, in his own biased opinion, meaningless ramblings. Granted, he has never actually showed his lyrics to anyone before, afraid of baring his entire soul to someone who will most likely not understand the peculiar workings of his mind, but still.

He's torn away from his seriously incessant daydreaming by Mark nudging his shoulder with an ice cold beer bottle. "Hey, you spaced out a bit there, dude. Here's your beer."

Accepting the bottle with somewhat numb hands, Tyler cracks a smile in thanks. He isn't really the biggest fan of beer; although he's not about to tell Mark that after he had gone out of his way to buy one for him. It's not like he doesn't enjoy a cold one once in a while, mostly when he just needs something to numb the ache of this seriously overrated enigma called life, it just isn't particularly his drink of choice.

His tastebuds protest half-heartedly as he gingerly takes a sip while his face makes it its sole mission to betray him as it scrunches up without his permission. Thankfully, Mark doesn't seem to notice as he points to the band playing their hearts out on the relatively small stage.

"Pretty good, aren't they?" he asks, though it sounds more like a statement, turning his attention to Tyler.

He nods in response, never taking his eyes off of Josh. He's got such an alluring stage presence, it's something Tyler has never seen before.

"Yeah, the drummer is pretty sick," he comments, the bottle in his hand soothing against his slightly feverish skin.

He notices Mark looking at him in his peripheral vision. "Josh? Yeah, man, he's awesome. I know him pretty well actually; you wanna meet him afterwards? I was gonna talk to the band anyways after their set."

Tyler nearly tells him that they had already met, but they haven't actually _talked_  to each other or anything, so he doesn't. Instead he says, "Oh? That's cool. Um, sure."

 

                           ***

 

The backstage area of the club is weirdly different, Tyler notes in mild surprise. It isn't as cramped nor does it have an overwhelming scent of alcohol and sweat, he thinks as he inhales gratefully through his nose and stretches his arms gradually in the open space.

They finally reach a black-painted door on the far right of the long corridor, and as Mark gives it two sharp raps, Tyler takes the opportunity to quickly wipe his clammy hands on his jean-clad thighs. He's nervous for some reason; maybe it has to do with his inability to socialise properly or maybe it has to do with him being in slight awe of Josh's drumming. Once again, it could be a mixture of both.

After a short moment, the door flies open. Tyler nearly ends up choking on his own spit because he hadn't been expecting it to open so abruptly, though he tries his best to nonchalantly play it off.

A tall brunette guy, who Tyler suspects is the lead singer—he hadn't exactly been focusing his attention that much on the other members, he recalls with a small pang of guilt—appears in the somewhat cramped doorway.

"Mark! Glad you could make it, dude," the guy exclaims, raising his fist in the air expectantly. "What did you think? Pretty awesome, right?"

The brunette grins as Mark bumps their fists together. " _Dude!_ You guys were killing it out there. I gotta say, this was probably your best one yet."

The guy waves his hand dismissively as if he's trying to play it off modestly, but his huge grin says otherwise. His eyes wander over to Tyler, who is currently hovering awkwardly a few steps behind Mark, in a lame attempt to not draw too much attention to himself.

He once again wipes the palms of his hands on his jeans subconsciously.

"Hey, who's your friend? I'm Tim, that's Eric, A.J. and Jared," he gestures vaguely to the three guys sitting on a green couch pushed up against the left wall, "and that's Josh." He points to the aforementioned guy with the, as previously stated, impressively red hair.

Their eyes lock as Tyler does an awkward sort of wave. "Uh, hi. I'm Tyler, Mark's... co-worker." He narrowly avoids uttering the term friend, because, as lame as it sounds, Tyler doesn't have any friends and it's supposed to stay that way.

Mark chuckles and throws a light arm around his shoulders, stating, "You can say friend, we aren't at work right now, dude," causing Tyler to flush and direct his gaze toward his black beaten-up Vans.

"Hey, we met last night! At Walmart," Josh suddenly pipes up, taking a few steps forward. "Cool meeting you again. What'd you think of the set, man?"

He's practically beaming by now, and Tyler finds himself stumbling slightly over his words. "O-Oh, yeah, hi," he tries to convey indifference as if he hadn't been completely taken aback when he first saw Josh behind the drums. "It was great. I really liked the first song," he says, before abruptly backtracking, "not that the other songs weren't great, I just, uh—"

If it wasn't painfully obvious by now, his social skills need serious polishing.

Josh cracks a smile while Tyler is busy mentally _kicking_  himself for sounding so incompetent. "Hey, it's okay. I get what you mean," he assures. "And thanks, that one's probably my favourite too. At least to play live."

Tyler releases the air, unbeknownst to himself, trapped in his lungs as he nods. He quickly ducks his head and lets Mark do the rest of the talking since he obviously is just making a huge fool of himself.

It's strange. He can never quite figure out how the cogs in his mind twist and turn; he is never like this whenever he picks up guys, which, when he does, he's oddly confident. Now, to point out, he's not particularly fond of his own looks but it has to be some sort of peculiar charm he subconsciously releases in order to not get brutally rejected. It all might be because of the small, but adamant, voice in the back of his mind constantly telling him that he'll die alone. That thought terrifies him more than the prospect of getting rejected ever could so he just goes with it.

After approximately ten minutes of Mark making small talk with the rest of the guys (and Tyler just hovering inconspicuously in the doorway), the brunette steals a glance at Josh who is now sitting by himself on a table in a corner of the relatively small room, headphones plugged in, eyes closed and seemingly lost in his own world. It's kind of endearing, for lack of a more appropriate word. The rest of the guys are animatedly talking about the gig and joking around, while Josh is just doing his own thing. It's something he likes to do before and after every show, to sort of keep his feet rooted to the ground after spending hours on a stage feeling on top of the world.

He opens his eyes to find Tyler staring at him—no, more like staring _through_  him, as if quietly lost in his own reverie. Heat spreads through his cheeks as he a short moment later notices Josh looking back at him and abruptly averts his gaze, his eyes landing on the wall to his right, which freakishly resembles the colour of vomit, Tyler notes as his gut churns uncomfortably.

Tugging the earphones out sheepishly, Josh says, "Sorry, I'm being rude, aren't I?"

Tyler casts a glance at Mark and the others, but they don't seem to have noticed that Josh had even spoken, too engrossed in arguing about who's gonna kick who's ass at Mario Kart. Looking back at Josh, Tyler does a slight double take when he realises that he's talking to him and not the other guys.

"Oh, you're talking to me! Um," Josh huffs out a laugh and nods, "no, you're not being rude, don't worry about it," Tyler assures him quickly. It hadn't bothered him in the slightest; he's more curious than anything else.

As if reading his thoughts, Josh states, "This is just something I like to do after every show, to sort of... ground myself, I guess you can say. I mean, since the feeling of performing feels sort of equivalent to being on top of the world, for me it's important to get back on my feet afterwards so I don't... lose track or whatever," he scratches the back of his still slightly sweat-clad neck and looks away, seemingly embarrassed. "Sorry, I don't know why I—it's dumb, I know."

Tyler stares at him as he processes the information with something akin to awe warping his facial features before snapping out of it and shaking his head frantically. "No! I mean, no, it's not dumb at all; um, that's actually pretty interesting."

He flushes lightly and picks at a loose thread on the hoodie clutched in his clammy hands (he had been forced to take it off earlier as it had threatened to give him a heat stroke in the overbearingly stuffy room of the club) as he prays to whatever God is out there that it didn't sound as creepy as he thinks it did.

Man, he just can't catch a break today.

Josh just smiles and hops off of the alarmingly unsteady table, unplugging the earphones from his cellphone and stuffing them in a duffel bag resting against the chipping wall near the door.

"Really?" His tone comes off as somewhat disbelieving but with a hint of amusement at the same time.

Tyler offers a mere nod in return, unable to trust his voice to not betray him.

 _Oh, my_  God, _how much longer is Mark gonna talk to those guys, I'm convinced they've already covered every single topic there is by now, can this be any more awkw—_

"You know, you can sit down if you want."

Tyler startles at the sound of Josh's voice, nearly dropping the hoodie he's holding in the process. He hadn't even realised his mind had wandered off once again.

"What?"

"You don't have to keep standing in the doorway, you can sit down if you want," Josh reiterates casually.

He can tell Tyler's uncomfortable, the telltale signs being his wringing hands and shifty feet, which is sort of his area of expertise because of his own anxiety; so he figures letting him know that he doesn't have to keep standing rigidly in the doorway might ease his nerves at least a little.

"You can sit here or on the couch next to A.J., Jared and Eric; whichever you prefer, man," he shrugs and gestures vaguely to the other guys.

Tyler forces himself out of his feet-rooted-to-the-ground stance and—after a short-lived internal argument with himself over where he should sit—warily makes his way to the table Josh is currently occupying, plopping down a few inches away from the aforementioned man.

As Josh gives him a lopsided smile before taking a swig of a water bottle he hadn't noticed until now, Tyler fiddles silently with the longer of the two strings of his hoodie while desperately grappling for a good conversation starter so he wouldn't have to suffer through the, most likely, inevitable awkward silence for longer than necessary since Mark obviously isn't done conversing with the other guys quite yet.

Thankfully, Josh starts talking before Tyler even has a chance to open his mouth and blurt out some incoherent strung together sentence. "So you and Mark are co-workers, then?"

The tension in Tyler's shoulders dissipates slightly as he clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, he—um, he invited me to come along with some other dudes, who I haven't seen since you guys were performing, uh..." he trails off dumbly as he realises that Mark's other friends had disappeared somewhere around the last song.

How had he not noticed them leaving?

 _Wait,_  he thinks before looking over at Josh who's already looking back at him,  _right. I guess I was sort of engrossed in his playing the entirety of the set. Whoops._

Josh wheezes out a quiet laugh at that and adjusts the snapback obscuring most of his red curls. "Well, I'm glad he invited you. He's a real cool dude, you know he occasionally shoots our gigs?" Tyler sits up a bit straighter at that and shakes his head. "Yeah, he's pretty fucking talented, too. You should see some of his videos, he's really got an eye for that stuff."

Tyler watches with mild interest as he absentmindedly picks at a fraying hole on his long-sleeved sweater while speaking. Nervous habit, perhaps?

"Really? He has never mentioned—or, I mean, he's told me about his interest in cinematography but, um, never that," he mumbles the last part, glancing over at Mark who's currently in a heated discussion with Tim about something Tyler doesn't care to listen in on. Though, if he strains his ears, he can catch Mark smugly saying, "Yeah, well, your _mom_  is going down," and Tim dramatically responding with, "You take that back right now!"

He figures they're still on the topic of Mario Kart.

As another silence falls over the pair, Tyler swiftly racks his brain for something to say before the awkward silence, which he can already feel start to seep through the cracks, proceeds to suffocate him. He places his hoodie on the empty surface next to him and asks, "So, how long have you been playing the drums for?"

Josh's eyes light up at the question as he shifts on the table to sit criss-crossed, turning his body slightly to face the brunette. Tyler bashfully fixates his gaze on the carpeted floor.

"Um, well, I was about twelve when I first took an interest in it," he begins. "I saw this totally _sick_  drum set at Guitar Center one day and just immediately fell in love with it, you should've seen it, man. I, uh, decided to try it out, even though my parents didn't approve of it. I was hooked right away. I begged them for about a year before they finally relented and got me my own kit. Although it wasn't the one in the store I played that first time—that thing was fucking _expensive_ —I didn't care; I _finally_  had my own kit after using theirs practically every day for a year. God, they must've been so sick of me by that point," he laughs and looks down at his fidgeting hands. "So—"

He abruptly cuts off, looking sheepishly over at Tyler who's so engrossed in his story he almost misses the sudden light pink dusting his cheeks. "Um, sorry, I tend to ramble sometimes; I didn't mean to steer away from the question like that," he scratches a spot right above the light scattering of stubble across his jaw. "You can just tell me to shut up if I do it again," he says, chuckling faintly.

Tyler is momentarily caught off guard by the other man's unexpected inhibition before hastily composing himself. He doesn't understand why he's suddenly so embarrassed; the way his eyes light up brightly when talking about drumming and the way he speaks so _passionately_  about it is rather refreshing. Tyler's exactly the same when it comes to writing music; the spark of joy whenever he picks up a pen and pours his heart and soul onto a blank page, the exhilarating jolt twisting his insides when he finally finishes a song after bouts of frustrating writer's block and late nights; and last but not least, the total euphoria zapping his bones when he—after so long of playing it over and over again in his head—gets to bring it to life on the small keyboard he keeps shoved into a corner of his bedroom. Though, this all evaporates rather quickly whenever he stumbles upon the devastating reality of his terribly dull job.

"What? No, are you kidding? That's freaking sick! And you've been drumming for—"

"—Nine years, yeah." There's a brief pause. "What about you, you play any instruments?"

Tyler barely has time to register the question, let alone the small part of his brain screaming,  _"Oh, shit, this is slowly approaching dangerous territory, change the subject!"_ , before Mark interrupts their conversation to ask Josh to, quote: "Tell Tim that I could easily beat his ass at Mario Kart. C'mon, Josh, tell him!"

How are they _still_  on that?

"Yeah, uh, no offence, Mark, but you fucking suck at Mario Kart," Josh informs him, attempting to look apologetic but failing miserably.

Mark gapes at him as Tim lets out a cheer and pats his shoulder in mock comforting. "Sucks to suck, Eshleman."

Tyler huffs out a quiet laugh at the ridiculous exchange as Mark flips both Josh and Tim the bird, then proceeds to pout childishly.

"Yeah, well, fuck you guys."

 

                           ***

 

Tyler plops down on his unmade bed with a heavy sigh and aching bones wrapped in the coat of a seemingly never-ending day.

The thing he dreads is, now that he had agreed to hang out with Mark once, is this gonna become a regular thing? Is he gonna keep calling Tyler, since he now has his phone number? He had managed to dodge a particular bullet earlier in the dressing room when he had been asked by his co-worker if he wanted to join them at Tim's place to play Mario Kart; the game they had spent approximately twenty minutes arguing about (also, Tyler seriously doubted Mark was gonna be able to "kick Tim's sorry little ass", as he had so eloquently stated). The brunette had carefully skirted around the offer, saying he had to get back to his dog.

He doesn't even have a dog.

While Mark and the other guys had totally bought it, seemingly unperturbed by the lousy excuse, Josh had looked at him with a strange expression, but hadn't said anything. He didn't seem angry or anything of that sort, just... curious and mildly perplexed.

It made Tyler's gut churn uncomfortably, knowing how transparent he had been acting.

Whatever, he's just not gonna think about it. It's not like he's ever gonna see Josh again anyway.

Right as he finishes that thought, he feels a vibration against his thigh. Squirming to get to the phone trapped in one of the pockets of his skinny jeans, Tyler lets out a noise of triumph as his nimble fingers finally gets a grip on the aforementioned device. He has a rising suspicion that it's Mark again, but when he actually sees the notification on the dimly lit screen he shoots up from the bed so fast he nearly falls over from the sudden dizziness erupting behind his forehead caused by the abrupt movement.

**Unknown Number: hey is this Tyler?? this is Josh from earlier. you left your hoodie at the club and i wasn't sure how to get it back to you so i asked Mark for your number. hope thats okay.**

Tyler buries his face in the palms of his hands and proceeds to groan out loud. He can't believe he forgot his _hoodie!_  That's why he hadn't been able to shake the feeling after he had left the dingy club that he'd forgotten something. Of course.

He is _such_  an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your feedback, if you have any that is, it'd certainly help me out a lot! Is it total garbage? C'mon, you can tell me. If it's not, I'll happily continue it.
> 
> Also for the record, mushrooms are delicious and anyone who says otherwise (ahem, Tyler) is crazy.
> 
> I don't make the rules!
> 
> And another thing, I totally just guessed the amount of dollars all those things cost, since I'm not American I have no clue if it's even a remotely correct amount of money or not lmao.
> 
> but I'm gonna stop taking up your time with my rambling and go. Thanks so much for reading! xx


	2. not a chapter

Hi! I just wanted to give a little update on this fic. Now, I kinda doubt anyone is actually waiting for a new chapter but in case someone is, I thought I’d inform you of what’s been going on. A lot has happened in my personal life, I’ve had some mental breakdowns that prevented me from writing, I got diagnosed with ADD and all of a sudden I couldn’t bring myself to focus on anything, I could barely even read. I have very poor motivation to do anything (thanks, depression), it’s all just been a mess, quite frankly. And I know, I know, this hasn’t been updated in forever, but I have not given up on this fic. I’ve written about half of the second chapter, (I have admittedly not written anything in a while because I’ve been a bit preoccupied with playing Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate. An awesome game by the way, check it out if you haven’t already) so I’ll try (keyword is try) and get it published before the end of this year. If I don’t, then well... you have my permission to yell at me to hurry the hell up. Really, I won’t mind, it’ll just let me know that someone is reading this crap lmao. Oh and speaking off, over a 100 hits! Holy shit, I did not expect anyone to read this but thank you!!   
   
And to end this long and tedious note, I will delete this when the second chapter is uploaded. I have a tendency to ramble on so bless you if you read this whole thing. xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! xx


End file.
